


venice by night

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 14:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: There's something in the air in Venice.





	venice by night

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I watched _We Have Always Lived In The Castle_ and like a proper fool just fell into this... Hope you enjoy!

A very brief moment, and you’re in almost too much of a rush to catch it. The piazza is empty at this hour, empty but for the birds and a single solitary couple, hands caught together. There’s a long walk back to your rented room, and you’re not sure what madness had kept you awake for so long, trailing through alleyways, tracing faded door frames and slipping between columns.

Maybe it’s the same strange fever that’s fallen over the couple in the piazza. The man tugs the woman close, wraps his arm around her, kisses her—

You swallow and hurry away, a hand straying to your lips.

The same spell, indeed.

—

The streets are so narrow as you near your _pension_ that you can hear your own footsteps following you. You pause, entranced, as the echo fades.

It’s quiet, a little misty, just close enough to the nearest canal that you can hear the water lapping at the stone. It’s not heaven, not quite. You glance up at your shuttered room, the old, intricate key loose between your fingers. Do you really need sleep just yet?

Footsteps echo.

You whirl, heart racing, but there’s no one there. Not a soul, but the footsteps come closer, closer. A low, haunting whistle that sends a chill up your spine. You tuck yourself into the entryway, fumble with your key. Your hands tremble; the key slips from your grasp.

It falls for an eternity.

The clatter of metal on stone pounds in your ear. Once, twice, three times as it bounces down the step, settles on the street. Your hand is still frozen by the door.

No more whistling, no more footsteps. But you hear the scuff of a shoe against the cobblestones, an exhale. You press your hand to the door, then whirl to face the man who’s caught you out so late with a harsh warning on your lips.

But no words come out.

He’s _beautiful_ , this stranger in the night. The dim shadows sharp against his jaw, his plush lips, his slicked-back hair—

No, _no._ You swallow it back, pushing it all away.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out so late, hm?” he murmurs. An American drawl to his Italian. He turns your key in his smooth fingers, looking up at you from under the world’s prettiest eyelashes.

Another swallow.

“Just walking,” you answer. You don’t bother switching to English. Maybe if he thinks you’re a native, he’ll stop looking you up and down like he wants to eat you alive. Or maybe he won’t stop.

You don’t know what you want. All you know is that he’s still turning your key so _deftly_ between his fingers, fingers you can’t look away from except to stare at his beautiful face. His lips curl into a knowing smirk.

He sets one foot on the step right next to yours. You inch back, shoulders pressed against the door as he crowds you in. Your key slips into his pocket; your hands twitch as he steps up, his chest brushing yours.

“Walking, huh?”

He trails a hand up your arm. A hint of a whimper at his feather-light touch. His hand falls. His eyes drop to your mouth. You lick barely parted lips.

“Bet that was real nice.” He steps down, away from you, eyes still so _knowing_ as he holds up your key. “You want this, huh?”

“ _Please._ ” You hold out your hand. Why are you trembling? Why do you wish he’d come back, press his chest to yours again?

Key so close you can nearly feel its coolness on your palm, and then he whisks it away.

“Only if you walk with me tonight.”

You sputter. “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me.” He’s smirking again, eyebrows arched dangerously. Everything is dangerous—the air, his breath on your face, his eyes, his lips…

“Fine.” You snatch your key and turn to unlock the door.

The brush of a hand on your back, and you freeze, key in the lock.

“I’m Charles,” he murmurs. He curls his hand around yours and turns the key. It clicks loud in the silence, almost as loud as your heartbeat. “Just so you know who to think about when you lay that pretty little head down.”

You sag against the door, knees weak as his voice thrums through you. By the time you’re brave enough to turn back, Charles is gone.

Oh, there’s _something_ in the air tonight. Good or evil, only time will tell.

—

You kick the blankets off your bed, skin scorching. Without Charles hovering over you, you can process it all. Dress hung back up, slip and stockings and girdle off; you’re near naked on the bed, just in a loose white nightgown, even your panties discarded.

With him too close, so close, a stranger without a name, you’d wondered if it was fear coursing through your veins. Now, you know better. Here you are, in bed, thinking about him just like he predicted. Like he ordered?

No, no one has the power to put thoughts in your head. But damn if it isn’t a close call. A handsome stranger, the gentlest hands, the most _knowing_ smirk…

Your fingers crawl across your hips as your eyes flutter shut. Charles had turned your key between his fingers so _nimbly_. What would his hands feel like on your hips? Your thighs? Between your thighs?

Nightgown bunched around your waist, bare fingers against bare skin… Are his hands as smooth as yours? You run a finger through your folds, gasping. Your hips buck up, greedy for more. Would he be this light? Or would he be harder, more forceful?

You bite your other hand to stifle your cry as you shove two fingers inside yourself, imagining him doing the same. In, out, thumb frenzied against your clit, bent arm brushing your painfully hard nipple. You can hear your rapid heartbeat in your ears, can feel it pulsing through your breasts, between your trembling legs.

Charles’ face, his voice, easily fills your imagination. Him on his knees, pulling up your skirt, smirking like he’d done before; his hands spreading your legs across your bed, his words as commanding as his eyes _—“Come for me, pretty thing."_

A third finger goes in, and you circle them against your walls as your thumb keeps up the pressure on your clit. You can _hear_ your fingers pumping now, slick and sticky and curling and—

White light bursts behind your eyes, and the last thing you see before you pass out is Charles’ face, his dark eyes drinking you in.

—

“A message for you,” a maid announces over lunch.

You take the note off of her tray, eyebrows pinched in confusion. It’s not a letter, just a scrawled note. Your eyes go straight to the bottom. Who on earth—oh. _Charles_. You thrust the note facedown on your lap, cheeks flaming. The two young women to your left giggle as you twirl your fork aimlessly through your pasta, stomach too full of butterflies to eat another bite.

—

_9pm. Torre dell'Orologio. Wear something pretty._

8:55. St. Mark’s Clocktower in the same piazza you’d paused in yesterday. The prettiest dress you’d brought, just shy of daring with its low neckline. Girdle a little tighter than usual, hair a little neater, blush a little brighter as you try not to look like a nervous schoolgirl. The Italian man who’d followed you from just past your _pension_ is still trying to get your name, your address, your hand. He won’t take no for an answer, so you ignore him as best you can even as he steps closer. You yank your arm away from his hand. Charles’ touch had sent fissures of pleasure dancing up your spine. _This_ stranger only makes you want to retch.

“Hey!”

The man at your side turns, insinuating smile fading as he takes in Charles.

“Hands off, chump.”

Charles wraps a protective arm around you and guides you away as the stranger rattles off a long string of Italian curses Charles’ way. A few for you too, for added measure, but his insults are so bizarre that you can’t help but giggle.

“That doesn’t bother you?” Charles asks. You’re emboldened by his obvious surprise. Maybe you had been a quivering mess in the entry of your _pension_ , but tonight, in the open air, sunset streaking the sky purple and blue, you know _exactly_ what you want.

“Well, he’s clearly talking out of his ass.”

Charles stops in his tracks. You raise your eyebrows at him, a smile playing at your lips.

“You—” He shakes his head, steps back with his hands on his hips. “What happened to the pretty sweet thing from this morning?”

You laugh. “Maybe you shouldn’t have told me your name,” you tease. “Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to think all _sorts_ of things through.”

A low growl escapes his throat. He steps closer.

This time, you meet him step for step until you’re standing so close you can feel his breath on your lips. He smells like tonic, like sandalwood. It’s not just his scent that’s leaving you heady. It’s the nearness of him, the feel of his hand toying with your full skirt, the thrill of what you’re about to say.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” you say.

Charles glances around. You’re at the edge of the piazza, tucked under the colonnade. There’s no one close enough to hear.

“Tell me,” he whispers gruffly. He takes your chin in his hand and fixes darkening eyes on yours. “And if you’re honest, maybe I’ll see them all through.”

You’re no liar. You’re honest as the day is long, whispering in his ear, your hand tracing the outline of his tie.

Charles swallows when you’re done.

“Come with me.”

—

You’d guessed right, in the end. Charles isn’t gentle. He’s demanding, _rough_. He shoves your legs open as you lie breathless on his bed, every scrap of your clothes and his discarded between here and the door. He’s hard, beautiful, sculpted, _perfect_ , from head to toe and especially in between. His cock is hard, long, the tip an angry red.

He hasn’t even kissed you yet. He’d just made quick work of the buttons down your dress and the closures on your girdle. You reach for him, greedy for his touch, his lips, but he bats your hands away as he crawls over you, cock brushing your thigh as he grabs his tie from the floor.

“Hands above your head,” he orders.

You comply with a whine, hips seeking his as he loops his tie between the slats of the bed. A gasp as he ties your hands tight. You grip the headboard, heart and clit pounding as he sits back and licks his lips.

“Now isn’t this a pretty picture.” He kneads your hips, thumbs just brushing the twin hollows between your cunt and thighs. “Spread all open just for me.” He ducks his head. You cry out when his nose bumps your clit as he breathes you in. “Mmm. _Perfect_.”

His tongue swipes through your folds, and you dissolve. It’s like _nothing_ you’ve ever felt before, wet and just rough enough to make brilliant sparks dance across your skin. You try and bury your hands in his hair, but you can’t move them from over your head. A litany of curses fall from your lips, and Charles chuckles. He kisses your clit, sucking lightly until you swear again. Only belatedly do you realize you’ve been speaking in English.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but Charles, _Charles_ , his fingers parting your folds and his tongue teasing your cunt until he thrusts it inside. His other arm holds your hips down, his muscles straining to keep you still. Then he pinches your clit.

Your mouth falls open, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling as he takes you apart, humming, lapping at the slick between your legs. Your wrists burn from all your efforts to break free, but he’s tied you too tightly. You’re at his mercy, and oh god, there’s nowhere else on earth you’d rather be.

Charles pulls away. Your hips chase his mouth, back practically perpendicular to the bed for the briefest moment before you collapse back down, panting. He hadn’t let you come.

Instead, he grabs a condom from the drawer beside the bed and rolls it down his cock with practiced ease. He settles on his elbows over you, his cock nestled between you and his balls hot and heavy against your ass.

“You want my cock?” he husks.

You nod frantically. “Please,” you beg. “Please, Charles— _Charles!_ ”

A tilt and thrust of his hips, and he’s sheathed balls-deep inside you. The headboard creaks as you pull with renewed effort. The stretch, the _burn_ is painful. You hadn’t expected so much so soon—but oh god, he twitches inside you, and you gasp.

“Fuck, you pretty thing,” Charles groans. His head drops to your shoulder, cradled between your head and your bound arm. “Such lovely noises you make for me.” He rolls his hips, just a few inches of difference, but it’s enough to make you cry out again.

Charles rolls his hips, slow, again. Again. And again. Every time, a burst of pressure to your clit. A coil winding tight, low in your belly. You clench around him, desperate for more, and he sinks his teeth against your collarbone. He pushes himself up on his hands, adjusts his weight, and grins fiercely down at you.

It’s all you can do not to scream when he pulls all the way out and _slams_ back in. That first time is enough to make you come undone. The coil _snaps_. You can’t see. Your whole body shudders and quakes as Charles fucks you through your orgasm.

“So tight,” he hisses. “ _Fuck_.”

You barely hear him. All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears, the light squeak of the bed in time with his deep thrusts and your own ragged breathing.

You come back to your senses when Charles pulls out and stays out. He flips you onto your front, pushing your ass into the air, spreading your cheeks as he spears you back onto his cock even deeper than before. Deeper, harder; you twist your head until it hurts, desperate to look at him. He’s on his knees, his face screwed up in a snarl as he snaps his hips against your ass. A flush trails down his chest; sweat beads on his brow.

Charles’ pace quickens. His balls slap against your legs as he thrusts, growls and swears falling from lips that have never once touched yours. His hands are painfully tight on your hips,  You push your ass back at him, the movement shooting friction through your breasts as your nipples scrape against the wool blanket.

“ _Charles!_ ”

He laughs triumphantly, breathlessly, as you shudder beneath him, chasing a second orgasm. His hands squeeze even tighter on your skin. The room is spinning around you, washing away with your own pleasure, but you don’t want to give in so easy. You bury your face in the blankets, biting at the fabric and grabbing the headboard to keep from exploding.

“None of that,” he says. He leans over you, still rocking his hips, and snakes a hand under you. He gathers the slick coating his cock and thrums his fingers over your clit. “Come for me, pretty thing.”

The room stops spinning. The _world_ stops spinning. All that exists is the pleasure ratcheting through you, from his hand on your clit to his long cock in your cunt to his lips on your shoulder blade. Your walls squeeze him, milk him—Charles pulls you even tighter against him and comes in you with a shout, collapsing on top of your quivering body as his cock pulses inside you, warmth flooding your cunt.

You can barely breathe. Charles is heavy on your back, his cock still twitching sporadically. Your damp face is buried in the wool blanket. Slowly, he softens inside you, and only then does his roll over, leaving you feeling empty and cold. You cross your arms under your head and turn to look at him. His perfect hair is mussed, face still flushed.

Lips still pink and untouched.

“Can I kiss you?” you murmur.

Charles blinks, then snorts. “If you want.” He smirks at you, waiting, eyebrows raised expectantly, but you only lick your lips.

“Not much of a romantic, are you?” you ask. His look softens as you gaze at him.

“I’m not at my best right after a fuck,” he says. He sits up, bends one leg up for a little privacy as he takes off his condom. “Give me ten minutes. We’ll see where I’m at.” He trails a finger from your shoulder to your elbow, the same light touch as he’d used at your _pension_ door, before heading to the trash can in the corner of the room.

“If you want,” you say.

Charles glances back at you, lying on your stomach on his bed, the edge of your breast just visible with your arms under your chin, your hips littered with finger-shaped marks. You shift your hips, clench your thighs under his greedy look.

“Yes,” he says. “I want.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think xoxo


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